


To cheer one on the tedious way

by bhaer



Series: Before The Storm [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Childhood, Domestic Violence, Gen, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unconnected sketches about the sibling relationships of various amis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bahorel

**Author's Note:**

> For Bahorel, who's up first, please be warned that this contains instances domestic violence and child death! I doubt the rest of the chapters will be so upsetting, but be careful if any of those subjects trigger you.

Though only five years old at the time, Georges Bahorel remembered his sister’s wedding vividly. He would still, under the effects of opium, describe the pearls sewn into Madeleine’s dress and how her hair shone red under the church’s candelabra. 

Bahorel was seven when Nicolette was born. Sometimes, when he was feeling a little drunk and a little unhappy, he’d speak of how small the infant had looked in Madeleine’s plump arms, wrapped to bursting in lacey bedclothes.

Bahorel was ten when Nicolette fell down a well. Occasionally, if angry and in dire need of a punching bag, he would mutter her name when bemoaning the irregularity of the world.

Small as he was, he had helped shovel brown earth on the little coffin and had held Madeleine as she shook, not with sadness, but with fury.

On Bahorel’s eleventh birthday, little Georges was born. His namesake was round and delicate and as an especial present, he was allowed to hold the baby. It felt heavy in his arms. Madeleine sketched the scene and somewhere, buried in a trunk at home, the picture remained. There was big Georges, sporting a brilliant purple black eye because even at eleven, he understood that fists communicated better than anything else. Still, his expression was surprisingly gentle as he surveyed his nephew. Madeleine captured it brilliantly. She would always complain loudly that were she born a man, she’d become a famous artist. Bahorel understood the unfairness of her position, as he understood the unfairness of a God that would allow Nicolette to break her neck. 

For several years, things became uneasily calm. Madeleine had more children, each smaller and sleepier than the next. Bahorel was sent, kicking and screaming, to school, where he earned a collection of scars to put any Romance hero to shame. He taught his nephew to write and then how to write blasphemy.

Bahorel spent his summers at his sister’s home. Her merchant husband showered her with luxury not to be found with their parents. Besides, he liked watching Madeleine get into screaming matches with her mother-in-law over the cutlery. Bahorel had a mean punch and already his slim arms were becoming thick with muscle, but he could never fight the way Madeleine could. She never raised a hand, only her voice, which became husky and demonic when she screamed. Madeleine had perfected the art of slamming doors and could storm out of dinner with so much gusto that it ruined the entire evening.

Bahorel pretended not to hear when she was punished for her tantrums. His room was adjacent to hers and at night, would sleep with a pillow over his ears. He didn’t want to hear his sister, his idol, beg for forgiveness.  

When Bahorel was fifteen, he once again helped bury a niece. Madeleine’s youngest lived but fifteen minutes before expiring in a fit of coughing. Madeleine was too tired to attend the funeral. The little girl was christened for her mother, because no one could think of another name.

Little Georges was sent to school and while his slight frame might have made him a target for bullies, Bahorel watched over him carefully. In return, Georges cheerfully helped his uncle cheat on every test.

It was just before Bahorel left for Paris that Madeleine’s body finally exhausted itself. She was dressed in a coral gown made of the finest silks that clashed horribly with her coloring but displayed her husband’s wealth nicely for any visiting relations. Bahorel remembered, though he never spoke of it to anyone, how her plump cheeks seemed wan in death and her mouth was closed in a grimace. Upon inspection conducted surreptitiously during the service, Bahorel could see where the undertaker had powdered over a plethora of bruises.

He clasped the hymnal so tightly his knuckles went white.

For the third time in his life, Bahorel dug a grave. And, in memory of his beloved elder sister, used the shovel to whack her widower unconscious before storming away.

 


	2. Courfeyrac

There was Marcelline, then Adam, then Arnaud, then Violette, then Benoit, _then_ Laurent. Somewhere in between Lydie had been born, but she died young and was forgotten except for Christmas, when they each lit a respectful candle at church for her. 

Laurent enjoyed the privileges that came with being the youngest child. Marcelline petted him, playing mother as if he were an overgrown doll. Even after she married and had children of her own to fuss over, she would write long, meandering letters inquiring whether or not Laurent was wearing gloves and if his bedroom was warm enough in the winter. Laurent had fuzzy, dream-like memories of his governess, but he recalled Marcelline vividly. She oversaw his early education, scolded him fiercely, and was the best nurse in France. 

Adam and Arnaud, frightful freckled twins, teased him and whenever breaking another priceless heirloom in the midst of play sword fighting, found it convenient to blame the baby. Their excuses were rarely believed but Laurent was hurt deeply that they would even attempt to pin their crimes on him. He responded by stealing their toys. The rivalry was strong, so much so that even after they were all grown, Laurent made a particular point of hiding Arnaud’s love letters from his mistress just to watch him squirm searching for them.

Violette, though Laurent’s elder by three years, was his best friend. She taught him to ride a horse long before he was old enough to undertake it safely. She was occasionally cruel. The effects of an aristocratic birth showed most clearly in Violette. What she wanted, she got, and if she didn’t, she’d scream loud and piercing. She was rude to the servants and blatantly ignored whatever their parents asked. She preferred taking Laurent on long rides throughout the countryside. He adored her and feared her in equal measures.

Benoit was a mathematical prodigy with a rebellious streak, which was how Laurent entered university with only a basic understanding of algebra and intimate knowledge of several methods of cheating. They were not close. Benoit had seemingly been born grown up and had no time or patience for the youthful adventures of his siblings. He helped them pass whatever scanty coursework they had been assigned but otherwise kept to himself. At seventeen he surprised everyone by falling madly in love with a barmaid that he then married. It brought immense shame to the de Courfeyrac name, but Pauline was such a good sport that no one minded.

Finally, there was Laurent. His parents were kind, if absent-minded. They focused their attention on wrangling Adam, Arnaud and the terrible Violette into submission and heaped meaningless praise on the rest of their children. Madame de Courfeyrac loved Laurent best because he was kind and his mishaps caused minimal chaos. Monsieur de Courfeyrac thought Laurent “a fine boy” but didn’t expound much energy studying him.

And so it was that Laurent de Courfeyrac grew up, spoiled rotten and sheltered from the nearly everything bad in the world. Marcelline worried so much about his delicate soul that she ripped any particularly violent scenes from his books. He had a very inadequate knowledge of Greek mythology, assuming it mainly consisted of Zeus sleeping around with no consequences.

School was troublesome. For the first time in his life, Laurent’s every whim wasn’t met. He was no longer showered with affection, far from it. His quirks and eccentricities weren’t fondly coddled. He’d spent most of his life assuming Adam and Arnaud were tyrants, having never encountered real bullies. He was introduced to reality painfully and for the first nine months walked around with red eyes, looking entirely too much like a lost puppy for comfort. 

Over Christmas dinner, Marcelline instantly saw her brother was terribly unhappy. He hardly retaliated when Adam and Arnaud flicked pieces of chicken at his face and seemed entirely uninterested in Violette’s pleas for a snowball fight. Marcelline was a maternal creature and while she loved visiting her parents, missed her flesh and blood children miserably. She needed an outlet for her affection and chose Laurent. 

This involved grabbing him from his bed in the dead of night and dragging him by the ear to the library. After ordering some milk from the half-asleep butler with a fury that would have made Violette squirm, she sat Laurent down and demanded he tell her what was troubling him.

“What time is it?” Laurent responded sleepily.

Marcelline playfully swatted at his head.

“I would be entirely _un_ troubled if I was allowed to sleep,” Laurent grumbled.

“You’re clearly unhappy. Tell me about it. Is it school? I _told_ Maman that that awful academy was entirely unsuited to a boy of your disposition,” Marcelline said. Laurent, who was twelve and beginning to think of himself as a man, frowned into his milk.

“It _is_ school! Is the food bad? Or is it the teachers?” Marcelline shrieked. Laurent said nothing.

“Are the other children being cruel?”

It was such a childish way of putting it that Laurent immediately turned scarlet. Even in the darkened library Marcelline could see his color change, confirming her suspicions.

She pounded her father’s desk furiously.

“What odious, miserable maggots! I’ll tell Papa and he’ll have them all whipped!” Marcelline raged.

“Please don’t. I do have friends and I’d like to keep them,” Laurent lied.

“But there are some boys who aren’t friendly?” Marcelline asked. Laurent paused and nodded.

“Well, there’s only one thing for that. You’ll have to defend yourself,” Marcelline said briskly.

“That’s easier said than done,” Laurent muttered.

Marcelline downed her milk and set the glass down sharply.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” She said determinedly.

* * *

 

The next day Marcelline asked Laurent to accompany her on a walk. The air was frigid and he begged to be allowed to sit in front of the fire and play chess with Violette, but Violette oddly declined. She kept frowning at Marcelline when she thought Laurent wasn’t looking. 

Obviously outmatched, Laurent agreed and they set off. Marcelline talked about her baby’s fascination with his toy soldiers loudly and kept circling to a certain weathered oak tree. 

After returning to the same spot half a dozen times, Adam and Arnaud burst out, brandishing their fists. Laurent moved to run away but Marcelline caught his collar and held him in place.

“They aren’t going to _hurt_ you,” She cooed.

“We’re going to teach you how to punch!” Arnaud cried.

They spent the next half hour explaining the proper way to hold one’s hand and the correct way to swing one’s arm. It was all complicated and confusing but when they weren’t being deliberately misleading, Adam and Arnaud were good teachers. The lesson ended when Laurent, buoyed on his new skill, gave Adam a split lip.

Several weeks later he did the same to a hulking older boy. He proudly described the scene in letters to Marcelline, Adam, Arnaud and Violette. Georges Bahorel forgave Laurent and in fact admired his strength. In the end, they became friends and Marcelline, contented with her work, returned to her own children.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Christina Rossetti's "Goblin Market".


End file.
